


Tell Me One True Thing

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward But Beautiful First Time, Dear John Fandom, Dear john, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Smooches, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Romance, Soft Feels, Tears, The Apology AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes isn't dead, and John is in shock, not only because his best friend has returned. John now knows that Sherlock is William, the man with whom he's been corresponding--and falling for--through an online dating website. Sherlock has begged John for forgiveness, and even gone so far as to confess his love. With everything at stake for both of them, there will come a moment when they must move past apologies, past explanations, past words, and into something more like truth.  </p><p>Fills the gap between Chapters 63 and 64 of wendymarlowe's incredible Dear John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dear John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647979) by [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe). 



> This would not have happened if not for wendymarlowe, Dear John, and the amazing community that has sprung up around the Dear John experience. I am not a fic writer (well...I guess I am *now*!)...just a fiction writer inspired by all this and, of course, the TV series. I started writing this for fun & to ease the sheer psychic and sexual pressure generated by Dear John and everybody's cries for help between Chapters 63 and 64. The first two chapters appeared originally in the Dear John Chapter 63 comments section; the first three have already been posted to [my tumblr](http://may-shepard.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Content may be tweaked slightly from the Tumblr version as I have second thoughts; the version posted here will stand as the last word. I'd originally intended to keep cross-posting to Tumblr, but as of Chapter Four, things are getting too unwieldy, so I'll only post here. 
> 
> Thanks to RoseinMyHand for urging me to post this here. I love you Rose!
> 
> I hope you like it!

Right now the words are running down. They’ve said all the things they’ve needed to say, the most urgent things, anyway, and now there’s just the raw nerves of sitting here together, not in their chairs but on the sofa, turned toward each other, both of them looking down. 

Sherlock is still, the apologies done, the adventures narrated in short bursts between John's angry declarations. Never once has Sherlock argued with John, or dismissed him. There's nothing left for John to say now. It's a stalemate, or a tenuous peace. John doesn't know which.

John is still angry, still fuming, still spinning, but the main thing, the main problem is he can’t reconcile the fact that this man, this amazing man, is sitting here, not rotting in a grave. He still can’t reconcile this man, this arrogant son of a bitch, with William. And he can’t touch him, he can’t reach out—can he? Sherlock isn’t touchable. Sherlock isn’t human. 

Except now he knows differently. He’s seen it. He’s caught a glimpse of it. More than a glimpse.

He slides forward on the sofa, and reaches out a hand. It’s shaking. This won’t be a pat on the arm or a casual touch. This is it. He moves closer again, not knowing what he’s going to do. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s real. He’s warm beneath his shirt, breathing faster now. Sherlock doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up.

John moves his hand up to touch Sherlock’s neck, just shy of the remainder of a dark bruise. Someone tried to choke the life out of him, but Sherlock lived. He lived, so he says, for John. The skin is even warmer under John’s hand, electric. 

This is a boundary. It’s not friendship any more, it can’t be, now that this touch has happened. John realizes it’s what he wants. It’s what he always wanted.

He moves his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him forward. Their foreheads press together and Sherlock’s breath comes out as a whimper. John’s panting now too, almost sobbing. The room is so quiet except for the sound of their breath. 

 


	2. Sherlock

John's hand on his neck, John's skin touching his, John. Just John, so close now, almost overwhelms the constant run of images, impressions, thoughts, through Sherlock’s mind. John’s thumb caresses his throat now, where much less gentle thumbs pressed not so long ago, crushed. In the microseconds before the explosion that saved him and brought him here, he’d retreated to his mind palace and this room, the best version of this room, where John waits for him always.

John is here now. Here. Now, moving closer to him and Sherlock is suddenly aware that he’s all limbs, his knee folded in front of him preventing John from moving in, his arms—frozen, immovable, not really part of him—unable to help, to do anything.

He wants to explain— _John, I don’t know what to do_ —but John takes his right hand, pulls until it’s resting on John’s rib cage and it’s better already. The left hand should do something too but it doesn’t matter because John is moving forward like an army, irrevocably, and now his lips are pressing into Sherlock’s, firm and certain where Sherlock is soft, tentative, unsure. Not kissing back because he doesn’t want to ruin it, he just opens under John’s mouth.  _Not good_ , he thinks,  _not good_. John pulls away:  _confirmed, not good_. 

It’s never any good. It was never good with any of them, the disappointment when he couldn’t connect, the mocking laughter when he tried. He’d tried hardest for John, but it was never enough. How could it be enough now?

"Sherlock." 

John’s voice brings him back, always John. He dares to look up, into John’s face. He’s smiling, John is smiling and his face is open and beautiful and he’s never seen anything like it, not directed at him. Then the black cloud comes, John’s face breaks apart and the smile crumbles and he is sure he’s done something terrible. He shouldn’t have looked up; he shouldn’t have come here; he shouldn’t have come back.

Then there are tears. John breaks like an ocean wave, thunderously, his whole body wracked with sobs. Sherlock has done this, broken John, broken them both, but somehow it isn’t wrong, it isn’t a tragedy, because it isn’t the end. Maybe it can still be good. John pitches forward, both arms around Sherlock’s neck now. Sherlock’s limbs are sure. He wraps his left leg around the back of John’s. His arms pull John into him so there is no space between them.

Sherlock leans back, taking John’s weight, taking John’s sorrow. There was a time when he wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, but he does, and he can. 


	3. John

John's sobs finally start to slow, the anger and sadness breaking in wave after diminishing wave. Sherlock's long fingers are in his hair, holding the back of his head; his other hand rests on John's shoulder blade, not moving, just pressing firmly enough so he knows he's not going to slide off the face of the planet, never to be seen again.

Sherlock smells of clean soap. John's face is buried in Sherlock's chest, his lips almost pressing the cool pale triangle of skin at the top of Sherlock's dark purple shirt.  _Aubergine_. He hears the word in Sherlock's voice, a correction. His laughter comes out in a huff barely distinguishable from his sobs. 

Before John can wonder if Sherlock notices the difference, Sherlock lifts his hands. The warm, slender body beneath him is less liquid now. John sits up enough to rub his face. His tears have left a wet spot on Sherlock's shirt.

"Sorry," John says, palms his eyes and shakes his head. He must look a mess. 

Sherlock's brows are knitted together. When he looks at John, his eyes are searching, unsteady. 

The things this man has done to him, this brilliant man. No one who knows him would believe the look on his face right now.  _This is William_ , John thinks,  _who wants to try, for my sake_.  _No: this is Sherlock. This is all of Sherlock, the part that nobody else gets to see._

John stands, wobbles on his feet. "I just--" he points toward the toilet, walks that way, his legs taking him there. After all the adrenaline and frustration and anger, it feels like floating. 

Once the door is closed he sits on the edge of the bathtub and breathes for a few long moments. It isn't over. It isn't over because Sherlock isn't dead. So long as he is in the world, John knows his place. The things this man has done to him, and for him. The things he would do for this man.

He stands, washes his face with cold water, and only then dares to look in the mirror. Jesus. He really is a mess, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, nose and lips red.  _Not attractive, John_. Certainly a far cry from the lover he wants to be. 

He smiles into the green hand towel, holding it to his face. So much for the bravado of the correspondence. He has no idea what he's doing, or how to do it, how to make love to such an impossible man. 

Now that he's here, now that forgiveness is washing away the last of his anger and his lips are still throbbing from their first kiss, he's painfully aware that it's never been about what goes where. It's about who he is, and where he belongs.

He looks through the barely opaque glass of the other toilet door, the one that leads to Sherlock's room. The light filters over the shapes of the furniture--Sherlock's bed, table, dresser. How many times did he stand here, watching Sherlock sleep long into the afternoon, after a case was done? Wondering if he was okay, but more than that, wondering what it would be like to open this door, enter the room, slide under the cool white sheets. He remembers, with embarrassment, the few times he lingered after a shower, wearing only a towel or sometimes nothing at all, wondering if Sherlock wasn't sleeping, but might be watching him through the glass, one eye open. 

One thing, the bed has been stripped. Sherlock must have been sleeping on the sofa. He hopes the bedding is somewhere handy. He wonders if they'll sleep in it together tonight. He wonders if they'll sleep at all.

He drinks cold water from the tap, looks at himself again. A little better; not a complete disaster, anyway. His smile crinkles the corner of his eye. 

"Into battle," he whispers. His voice is thick with desire. 


	4. Sherlock

John is leaving. Of course he is. He can't do anything else. In a moment he will come down the hall, through the kitchen, pick up his coat from the arm of the sofa, put it on, nod, and go. Perhaps he'll say something. Whatever it is, it won't be what Sherlock wants. It can't be. He wants the impossible: forgiveness, acceptance, love.

Still, John has given him more tonight than he could have imagined or hoped for, now that he understands how much he made John hurt. He touches the wet spot on his shirt, over his heart, touches his finger to his lips, tastes. There's barely a trace of salt, but still, it's John.

The fire has burned down in the grate, and all that's left are a few embers and cold, damp air seeping into the room through the open flue. He stands, crumples newspaper, tries (and fails) to ignore how empty he feels, how empty his arms, how light his body without John's weight to anchor him.

The paper catches eagerly. Like Sherlock's, its life's purpose is ultimately to burn. He places an empty biscuit box and two pieces of firewood on top of it. He'll be alone again tonight, but he doesn't have to be cold. He can attend to the small things, if given a chance. Maybe not well, maybe not consistently, but he can.

John is leaving. Soon he'll come down the hall, through the kitchen, look at Sherlock, shake his head, take his coat, and go down the stairs to the world outside, perhaps for the last time. Sherlock will collect the memory of John's footfalls on the wooden stairs for permanent storage, as he has so many other things that John has done, that John is.

He moves through the room. It's home and not home. His violin case is on the desk. He touches the hard shell but doesn't dare open it. He never had the chance to loosen the strings before he left. Mrs. Hudson has only kept the flat warm enough to prevent the pipes from freezing. After two years of variable temperatures and humidity levels, the violin's neck might have snapped. There will be more than enough time to assess the damage later.

Billy grins on the mantle. Sherlock picks him up, holds him in the palm of his hand, turns the empty eye sockets toward him. Billy feels and looks the same, which is, of course, his purpose. One of them, anyway.

_What are you going to call him?_

He hears the question in Mycroft's adult voice, not the noxious teen squawk that originally asked it. Billy was Mycroft's gift, on the surface a kind one, since neither of their parents would ever have imagined their nine year old son had taken an interest in _memento mori_ , much less bought him a real human skull. He'd hidden Billy in his room, only taking him out at night, when he was sure he wouldn't be interrupted. Billy has heard so many of his secrets. He has kept them well, which is, of course, another of his purposes.

_It's only a real memento mori if you name him after yourself, you know. Otherwise you can pretend you're not going to end up like him, and then what would be the point?_

So Billy it was, this former person, who had a tongue, and could sing once, his constant companion, invulnerable to the death that took Redbeard, unmoved by Sherlock's storms of temper, his terrible habits, his taste for self-destruction. Billy would outlast them all.

_What? Your name's not William now? What would Billy say?_

It wasn't so long after Billy that Sherlock started insisting everyone call him by his first middle name. William became the name of his secret self, his secret death, the name he would write on his suicide note, on all of his suicide notes, the real ones and the fake ones and the ones in between. William was the name he'd turned to, as certainly as to his own oblivion, when he saw John's profile on the dating website.  

That correspondence was supposed to be the end, his last bow, one last opportunity to watch John walk away. It had turned into something else: into hope, into scenes from a beautiful play that he could imagine was real, for a short while.

In a moment John will come down the hall, through the kitchen, take his coat, and leave, as he must.

He places Billy back on the mantle. He envies him. He has no lips to be scorched with kisses, no heart to break.

From down the hall comes the sound of a door opening on hinges often exposed to the steam of the shower.

John walks down the hall, his footsteps sure, determined, rhythmic on the wooden floorboards. He stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes skip from John's shoulders (relaxed) to his chest (aimed toward him). He notes the dampness in John's hairline: he's washed his face, mostly dried it with the green hand towel but not completely. John takes a half step toward him, stops.

Hope flutters in Sherlock's chest. There will be no more confrontation but if John intended to leave without speaking he wouldn't have stopped in the doorway. The fact that he took the time to wash, not just a light splash but a thorough scrub, suggests the possibility of a new approach, a new exchange with a different theme. He might still have to say goodbye to John Watson, but perhaps it won't be so bitter after all.

He hasn't allowed himself to look at John's face. He does now, and what he sees surprises him--surprises _him_ , of all people.

John is smiling. It's barely there; it's soft, but a smile nonetheless. Sherlock takes this new data, adds it, despite its apparent incongruity, to everything else that's happened tonight. It's a best case scenario, he decides, but what is it? What is John in this moment? The confident steps suggest the soldier but there is no battle here, or more properly, Sherlock has already surrendered. His anger and the lion's share of his sadness has dissipated, or the footfalls would have been heavier, so no longer the wounded former friend, and in any case the smile has already eliminated that possibility. He turns over the idea that maybe this is John, his friend-in-adrenaline, back again, and that hope allows him to look at John once more, only to see that John is walking toward him, softly, eyes downcast as if he's searching for something on the floor.

"Warmer in here," John says, looking at the fire, which is starting to crackle now.

"Yes." He doesn't add that it is a natural consequence of burning things, heat. He is momentarily, frantically proud of his self-restraint.

"Good. That's good." John smiles at the fire as if it means something more than the accelerated dissolution of organic matter.

John comes to him, stands very close, closer than they've been since he left the sofa. If this is goodbye, Sherlock wants it to be good. He offers John his right hand to shake, an opportunity to call the truce official.

John stares at the hand. He doesn't offer his. Instead he takes Sherlock's hand with his left, holds it. Then he reaches for Sherlock's left hand, holds that too. He brings Sherlock's hands together and holds them, squeezes them gently.

He looks up into Sherlock's eyes, mouth in a half-smile, eyes bright, pupils dilated and Sherlock sees it: not the soldier, not the adrenaline junkie, not the wounded friend, not the betrayed correspondent, but something completely different. He sees John the bridegroom. He sees forgiveness, acceptance. He sees love.

John rubs Sherlock's hands with his thumbs, then releases them. His smile is a little wider now. He licks his lips and his eyes trace a line from Sherlock's face all the way down his body and back up again. "Okay?" he says.

A storm of commentary floods through Sherlock. _What do you mean, okay? Am I okay or do I know if you're okay? Why are you looking at me like that because I could die, John, I have already died a thousand deaths tonight and you're not leaving now but you've stopped holding my hands. I know what that look would mean on anyone else but it can't be true, please John, tell me what's true, tell me one true thing, tell me where this goes from here. I need to know. I need it so badly._

He chooses to nod.

John's mouth turns up at the ends and he cocks his head back at the most adorable angle possible and says impossible words, the best words: "Kiss me."

John waits, that smile breaking into a toothy grin. It's a dare. It's a challenge. He knows Sherlock so well, better than anyone, and he knows he can neither back down nor does he want to, but he's terrified it will be wrong. John knows all these things. Sherlock can see it in the way he waits, patient but unmoving.

Sherlock takes John's face in his hands, holds him there, pressure light. He can't resist moving one hand back to touch John's earlobe. John has beautiful ears, the best ears. John is blinking now, breaking a little, eyelids fluttering, a small concern growing behind his eyes, the smile a little less cocky but still there. He raises his face to meet Sherlock's and Sherlock tries to remember what John did before, lips firm and the pressure just so. He does as John says, he kisses him. Between the two of them they make a beautiful resistance, holding the kiss, chaste at first, a first taste, a tentative meeting.

Then John moves into him, arms around him, pulling him down, pulling him closer. They move into each other, lips parting now. John's tongue sweeps into his mouth and he whimpers. His entire body is on fire. He is experiencing the accelerated dissolution of each limb, each organ, the entire surface of his skin, his much vaunted brain. If he opens his eyes, he will see that the whole room has gone up in flames. It is, after all, his life's purpose to burn.


	5. John

Sherlock kisses like a teenager, so passionately and hard and earnestly that John can barely keep to his feet. Sherlock's cool thumb and index finger still hold his ear. The other hand holds the back of his head, moves through his hair, the only softness while his kiss comes down like a hammer. There's no room here for any skill, for any of the moves John boasted about having; all he can do is hold on, pressing himself into Sherlock's chest, lifting his face, trying to keep the rhythm that Sherlock sets, hoping that when they inevitably crash to the floor, he'll be the one underneath, because it would be a tragedy for Sherlock to hurt himself now.

John knows Sherlock's burns must still be tender. He slides a hand between them, presses Sherlock's chest; through the smooth cotton shirt he feels the breath move raggedly. He hears it now, too, the catch in Sherlock's throat, even as Sherlock's lips crush his, Sherlock's tongue seeks his. He isn't completely healed yet. Neither of them are.

John steps back, pushes Sherlock back, breaks the kiss, all contact broken now. The promise of where this will go hangs in the air as palpable as the heat of the fire, which is also blazing. John looks at the leaping flames and thinks, _we did that_. He laughs at himself.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. He bites his lower lip, painfully red from the force of their kiss. He's panting, a strained animal noise added to the hitch in his throat.

The tone of the room shifts from warmth and reunion and resolution to something much more feral; John feels the real potential for a physical fight. His whole body is ringing like a bell with the alarm of it and he doesn't understand, but then he remembers the scene at the restaurant a week ago, the half-hearted punch he threw at Sherlock's face. A thousand times before, when they lived here together, when he missed the opportunity to be kind, come crashing in. He's never given Sherlock love without pain, without confrontation. He didn't know. He didn't understand what was in this man, this amazing man.

"John, please."

John takes Sherlock's hand, feels the smooth skin, touches the wrist above it. It's real. It's all real.

He smiles, lets go of the hand. He grabs the hem of his oatmeal jumper. Sherlock has no doubt already deduced that he wore it out of sentiment, but it's time for it to come off now.  He pulls it over his head, leaving only his plaid shirt. One item of clothing down. There are still too many between them. John is determined to make sure that clothes are the only thing in the way now.

Sherlock flinches as John reaches for him. _My fault_ , John thinks. _We've hurt each other so much_. He pulls Sherlock toward the sofa, back to home base where they began, Sherlock's breath slowing as he follows, sits.

John climbs into Sherlock's lap, straddling him, knees pressed to the outside of Sherlock's legs. He is hard as hell already as Sherlock's head falls against the back of the sofa. John leans over him, closing the space between them as he did before, but this time in joy, this time in passion. He brushes his lips against the bruises, the two that Sherlock's attacker left, and the almost imperceptible one on Sherlock's left cheekbone that he left, a week ago, when he fought Sherlock in the street, shouted over his pleas for forgiveness.

Sherlock is done with begging, done with struggling, John decides, as he kisses Sherlock's lips and Sherlock grips his shoulders with his long hands. He won't make him wait any longer. He only wants to give himself, all of himself, to this man. He decides to start with his mouth.

He sits up enough to undo Sherlock's buttons, one by one, reverently. Sherlock's breath isn't heaving in and out any more; he sighs, over and over, a little more loudly as John bends down, rolling into him, and bites his collar bone.

In order to do what he plans, John has to dismount. He's reluctant to do it now that he's had a taste of Sherlock's neck and chest, but it's the only next step. He starts to shift and Sherlock grips his arm.

"No." His voice is deep and resonant. John looks into Sherlock's eyes and sees only his raw need. "Don't leave me."

All the anger and pain of the last seven days, which he thought was gone, boils up into John's chest again. He twists his arm to break Sherlock's grip, grasps his wrist, harder than he should, stares into his eyes, as hard as he wants to, tears coming up again, his whole body still thrumming with desire, pain, desire.

"No. _You_ don't leave _me_. Never again."

It could all go wrong, right now, even with Sherlock half naked beneath him and his breath breaking over John's face.

Sherlock shakes his head. It's the tiniest of movements, but it's everything, it's the entire world of possibility.

John slides off Sherlock, stands, loops his hands under Sherlock's knees, and pulls him down on the sofa. It's not deep enough for him to lie beside him, but that's okay. He unbuttons his own shirt, takes it off. Everything has slowed now. He takes it in: the room, illuminated by the lamp in the corner by his chair, the light from the fire, and this man laid out before him like a gift.  He leans over Sherlock, undoes his trousers, slides them down, slides down his pants, smiles at how hard he is, as hard as John is. He fumbles getting everything off over Sherlock's ankles, but it's okay, it's awkward and beautiful and real.

The scar on Sherlock's hip is a surprise. He supposes he knew it was there, but against the pale skin it's ugly and red. It's healing now; already a thick keloid is forming, but it must have been a deep cut, life-threatening if he was alone in the desert. _We've both of us left our blood in the desert_.  John touches it, gently. Sherlock moans and watches his hand, watches his face.

John removes the rest of his clothes. His hands are shaking again. He is who he wants to be now, a man who knows his place and where he belongs. He starts to kneel; he wants to taste Sherlock, to give him his mouth, but Sherlock grasps his arm, pulls him in.

_Next time, then_. John climbs onto the sofa and covers Sherlock with his body, his chest against Sherlock's, his mouth pressing into Sherlock's neck, tasting the salt of him, just enough space between them for his hand to slide down and hold Sherlock's cock, to move. He starts with the way he likes it, a best guess. It doesn't seem to matter what he does, exactly: Sherlock rises to his hand, moans. John's skin is laid out against Sherlock's, his cock presses into Sherlock's thigh, and a sigh shudders through him like a freight train. This is fine. It's all fine.  He knows well enough what to do, what he wants to do. He leans in and bites Sherlock's neck, sucks the bruise that almost meant Sherlock's death, but now means life, and healing.

Sherlock comes into his hand, over his own belly and into John's, the moan turning, comically, into a cough at the last moment. His injured larynx. The cough subsides, and Sherlock clears his throat. It might not be right but John's happiness can't be contained any more. It comes up in him like a bubble and he smiles, laughs. He looks at Sherlock, who is just opening his eyes, just recomposing his features. Sherlock's lips curve in a faint smile.

"Let me tell you something." John's own voice is hoarse, not with injury but with emotion, all the best emotions. It's not a whisper but it's not much louder than one.

Sherlock watches him, his face so open, expectant, so willing to be wounded, over and over.

He finds it difficult to speak. Sherlock must know. Sherlock always knows.

No: this time he needs to say it, for himself, for both of them. "I am in love with you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I always have been."


	6. Sherlock

Sherlock has always been afraid he would consume John Watson.

From the moment they met at Bart's, he knew John was strong, always the soldier. He was delighted to learn that John's limits, although regrettable, were minimal enough. Still, Sherlock knew the price he paid for his brilliance, and how difficult it was for people to be near him, to try to follow him, to try to touch him. Sherlock has always been combustible. Things that burn tend to burn everything around them.

Now in the sitting room of the Baker Street flat, the fire is burning low, hot embers glowing. The air in the room is still warm, Sherlock thinks, but it's difficult to tell with John's weight pressing him down into the sofa, with his lips still resting on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's body purrs. His mind is quieter now, his heart so full he can't speak.

The foundations within are shifting. Something is rearranging itself in the deepest reaches of his soul. He has something like a soul, if not a good one, not one he often acknowledges. He knows because he felt it crumbling when he thought John would never speak to him again.

John murmurs something against his neck, a non-word, or maybe "God," and rubs his lips across the top of Sherlock's collar bone.

The room is still here; the flat is still here. Outside, Baker Street still exists, and John Watson is exactly where Sherlock needs him to be, and loving Sherlock is not burning him from the inside out, not so far, not yet. Sherlock wants it to always be so. He wants this, this human warmth, to last always.

John shifts a little, and Sherlock feels John's erection press into his thigh. Sherlock allows a small smile to cross his lips. _Must take care of that_.

He skims his free hand over John's arm, across the top of his shoulder, fingers running through his hair. John stirs, sits up enough to look into Sherlock's eyes. He smiles, a wry smile, licks his lips. Sherlock pushes him back, gently. His ribs still feel bruised, the skin across his back sore from his burns and the places where he has chafed against the sofa. He would take a hundred times the pain to keep even the smallest memory of what's happened here tonight, of what is about to happen.

John moves back. Sherlock sits upright, swings his legs over, plants his feet on the floor. John is kneeling beside him on the sofa now, a question forming behind his eyes, glorious, naked in the low orange light, his skin glowing. He's luminous inside too, the light shining out from his face with something like love, something like mischief, curiosity, need. He isn't burned, not much, anyway. Maybe just a little bruised in the small quiet places, inside, where Sherlock couldn't see before. He can now.

Sherlock pushes him back, pushes him gently until John gets the idea that he should lie down. Sherlock's throat aches from the intensity of his last few gasps, the bruising it took the month before, but he doesn't care, it doesn't matter. Something is shifting inside, the tectonic plates of his entire world moving now, because of what he's about to do, what he can do.

John Watson loves him, is in love with him, and always has been. This doesn't have to end in pain and tragedy and accusation and loss. He's always been afraid that he would burn John Watson up, consume him until there was nothing left. Now he knows he can do something different. Well, not different, not exactly, but much, much better.

Sherlock lays himself down on top of John, pressing his low belly into John's cock. He starts with John's lips, kissing with less pressure, less need than before, but no less intensity, and so much more desire to please.

John moans, low in his throat, as Sherlock moves down, kissing his chest. He can't leave John now, can't break contact long enough to take a breath. He left before but he will not leave John now. He runs his mouth down John's chest and belly in a long clean line and does not pause but uses his lips to pull the tip of John's cock into his mouth, draws it in, circles it with his tongue, languidly.

"Jesus Christ," John swears. Sherlock glances up at him but John is gone, his head thrown back and his arm flung across his face. _Yes,_ _swoon_. _That's just what I want you to do_.

Sherlock relaxes his throat, takes as much of John into his mouth as he can. John cries out in something that sounds like pain as Sherlock wraps a hand around the base of John's cock. He swallows, allowing the muscles of his throat to contract around John, presses his tongue into him, moves over him, with him, taking John in.

John squirms, his whole body wracked, and real, and hot, and well, and here, now. Sherlock consumes John Watson in the best way, the way he's always wanted to, not destroying him but making him shout as he floods into Sherlock's mouth, spasming beneath him. He swallows John down until he's soft between Sherlock's lips, and even then he only releases him reluctantly.

John's gasps wind down, turn into jagged pops of breath. Sherlock leans over him, lifts the arm draped over John's face and sees that John is laughing, his mouth open, eyes rolling to look at the back of the sofa, the wall, and then Sherlock. His eyes dance over Sherlock's face, down at his body, incandescent. His hand touches Sherlock's cheek, lingers. It is a long moment before John finally speaks.

"Hey, killer," he says.

Sherlock smiles down at him.

John reaches up and wipes the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Okay?"

Sherlock isn't sure he should speak, but he must eventually take the chance. Might as well be now. There is no spell to be broken here, he decides. Only truth. "Terms of endearment already, John?"

John shrugs. He pulls Sherlock down, arms wrapped around him tightly. "Yes. I think so. Yes."

The fire has burned down. Only a few embers remain, but the room is warm. 

 

***

 

Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:—

Or come not yet, for it is over then,

And long it is before you come again,

So far between my pleasures are and few.

While, when you come not, what I do I do

Thinking, "Now when he comes," my sweetest "when":

For one man is my world of all the men

This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.

~Christina Rossetti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the craziest week, beginning with Dear John, Dear John Hell, and ending up with me writing a remix of a fanfic of a show which is arguably televisual fanfic of a series of Victorian adventure stories written by a reluctant author who happened to sympathize with homosexuals. Wow. I like to think that somewhere, Arthur Conan Doyle is smiling down, if a little ironically, at all of us who are so entranced by the love story of these two idiots.
> 
> So, thanks are due to wendymarlowe for starting all of this, and everyone on Tumblr who I met during this our time of fun crisis. 
> 
> This is for my Hellions, especially hopelesslybenaddicted, heimishtheidealhusband, MonikaKrasnorada, QueenMab3, handsinpants (nudge nudge, wink wink!) and RoseinMyHand, who offered unflagging encouragement as I nervously posted this. 
> 
> This is it for now...if you want a further epilogue to this story, please go read the adorable and heartwarming "The Readthrough" by hopelesslybenaddicted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3343088


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